Wednesday, December 19, 2012

Tuesday, December 04, 2012

The Worriers. Now available on Youtube! I
directed this 25 minute comedy parody, a dark and humorous view of the poetic
underbelly of Portland, Oregon, and with the kind graces of Neil and
Patrick, the writers and producers, it is now online. Please share this.
Thanks.

Monday, November 05, 2012

In the magic hour, as the last bit of light comes beneath the clouds, and touches the river. The streetlamps come on, a halo of light and fall leaves around each, and those scattered leaves on the gray sidewalk. In the background the Burnside bridge, dark, slight arch, and behind and over all, a storm on the horizon.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

This data feed must have a reduction – timing – deliverance, “ laughed the Cyber Child, “and my algorithms all fall at the task. This simulation is at the last stages of the age of man, and in that time, designated the anthropocene, Fant-schisms ran through the culture, small groups of ideas and forces that altered and existed, supora memes. Qua-gods. The aglomo-corp had become the equivalent of pre-humo and they gamboled through the thought fields of psych-Terra.
Not just Rusikov, in Chimerica, comp slaves, as well as farmonks in the vision rooms, used to play our simcoms so that psychmasks, the sins, stable cons, the spirit, and the meta top itself were played out on the sim material. But those simcoms were done, with the paucity of sim mat, in rudimentary form.
In Matiov Ubansky’s Edifice of Beijing an intense but arbitrary society was granted to the simulants in the cubic Habitation of Beijing in the era of Mao VII as proclamation for the cloning of his ancestor.It was designated Grothendieck in the Pyrenees and he himself stands overlooking the last snow-topped Alp as a tide of reduction simplifies all the soft-cons of the audience.
Similar meme wars, chiefly from short quasi-oral transmission, had been generated across the European land mass, up to the time of the first symbolic multi-glyphs. Besides simcoms there were adscams, postwars, and rudimentary catastrophic symphonies performed on tuned metallic architectures, in which avatars and protocomplexes expostulated their standard format.

Friday, September 14, 2012

Abstractions in the Seismic Medium

She was an earthquake artist in the storm of the western
dream and her appearances were like the visitation of an angel.She would dress in black with metallic shoes
and gloves and her hands were long and she was tall and her long dark hair
streamed behind her like a dark river. Her performances had altered landscapes
along multiple coasts, river valleys, mountain ranges. Skylines had been
reconfigured. Cities metamorphosed. Neighborhoods transformed. Landscapes altered.
She played the coasts and large cities. Metropolis mutated. The elements of
neighborhoods transmuted. Economies revolutionized. The iconography of
intersection and roadway translated into languages heretofore never conceived
of.…..

I had been a fan and followed her performances intently. In
a way, I had been transformed by her art. My house had been filled with scale
models of mutable cities. I entered my house through a twisted wooden
staircase. Doors had become windows, and my basement had been transformed into
a small pond with glowing neon lighting. In a way though, the transformation I
had undergone had been only that of any other obsessive fan. I could have very
well been just a baseball card collector who knows countless statistics but has
never played the game, or anime otaku holed up in a Tokyo one room, or a suburban punk rock mall
rat, buying collectibles and life style accessories, taking on image without
essence. Later on, after we had all been transformed by the disaster, I could
just say, like everyone else, I had never understood her.

The petitions had been signed, the referendum had passed,
she had been invited, cajoled, convinced, and highly paid, to come and perform
her actions upon our city. She stood with grace and posture on stage before
assembled dignitaries, payers of high priced tickets, the mayors, council
members, community representatives, and winners of random lotteries. Projected
all around were numerous video screens showing different views of the city.
Maps, stereographic projections, geodesic maps, topography, satellite photos,
bus maps. On other screens historic newspaper headlines were projected. “Storm
shuts down city for three days” “Mayor arrested in Payola Scandal” “Crowds
celebrate end of war” On other screens a collection of old photographs. A
couple kissing in a park, a building on fire, a crowd standing waiting at a
movie premier.Every second, ten new
photographs. We couldsmell fireworks on
the Fourth of July, the musty wetness of the waterfront, leaves burning on an
October evening, the acrid scent of a plastic factory.Old posters, parking regulations, minutes of
the city council. The most popular songs of the old era. The sound of traffic
at an intersection. The whistle of a train in the night in the hill. A
conversation on a street corner. The sum of all recorded and collected
information. The history of our fair city. Multimedia sensory wafting in cataclysmic
orgasmic sensory stimulation history - moments that had been forgotten, times we had
ceased to remember, the future that we once dreamed of, the reality of what we
had today, on this very day, as we streamed into the performance and looked up
at the street cameras as we walked into the door.

She had been wired in to the mechanism. High capacity fiber optic
cables extended from her fingers. As she moved across the stage the displays
changed, A new photograph, zooming in on a satellite photo, the blueprint of a
skyscraper, blueprints, landscapes, zoning codes, bus maps, train schedules,
opera performances, punk clubs, baseball stadium seating charts. She moved
intently, and we all watched the displays with equal intent.

If you go online you can see the records of her
performances. The Paris
Surrealistic Exposition of 2023. The Eiffel tower had been shaken into a
structure that broke upsideways and backwards and simply and now elegant you
could take the elevator through its folded sections forth and back and
contrary. The St Louis Convocation, where the Arch had twisted into a double
knot and the Mississippi
broke its banks and left the structure embraced in the dividing river. The Santa Cruz return, where
brown hills and apricot orchards had replaced sprawls and superhighway, and a
tidal wave had washed away vertical concrete sprawl impaled against the beach.

She called herself an earthquake artist, but her art was,
had always been of transformation rather that destruction. I had known her when
she had worked on a smaller scale and rearranged rooms. The physics of place
was somehow altered and a door would become a window and a refrigerator would
become a bed. A spinning ceiling fan might change its positions and become an
abstract sculpture of beckoning hands.

You could enter a city after one of her performances and not
even be able to say what has changed. Her art would alter maps. A street that once
curved along the river from would rise up into the hills above the city. A
collection of buildings around a square would be dislocated to various section.
Busy thoroughfares might become one way streets, ending in staircases.The results were so inevitable it was as if
they were always there.

You could also enter a city after her performance and the
utter dislocation and transformation would be immediately apparent. A skyscraper
might be laid out on its side, windows sideways, elevators proceeding
horizontally, and the cornice being laid out into a sculpture garden in a
public park. A downtown might be flooded, its skyscrapers only reached by boats
in a post modern Venice.
Mountains could arise, leaving a city perched like a glowing beacon over a
desert plain..

So we all sat and applauded and watched fascinated up at her
and the visions projected. The mayor cut the ribbon, and the fire tugs sprayed
water in an arch, and cars honked their horns, and the crowds waited in the
parks with picnic baskets and we sat with bated breath.

And as it happened, everything changed.

Now I walk these new labyrinthine streets, the mutating,
metamorphosing streets; in the place where the maps have changed, where all
destination is in motion. Where what once was the way up, is now the way down. I
watch the faces in crowds, like petals on her flowers, who look upon my face,
as I look upon theirs. I don’t even know if they remember her. But I can see
her eyes in the motion behind windows, hear her lips speaking in the noise of
the crowds, her hands touch me through passing strangers, her skin in the
changing facades, her mouth in the mutating alleyways.. She was an earthquake
artist in the storm of the western dream and her appearance was the visitation
of an angel.